Binding Ties
by Naja Melanoleuca
Summary: A series of X-mas vignetts that show how all of the Fellowship in interconnected, but main character in present is Boromir in flashback it is Elrond
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters.  
  
A/N: This is the beginning of a set of Christmas vignettes. Each character will share a part of their past during Midwinter's while the Fellowship is traveling. There is some A/U in here, I know. The flashbacks mostly will revolve around Elrond and Gandalf while the Fellowship time will have more to do with Boromir.  
This story is not connected with my other story Estel/Estelle. I have not forgotten about it.  
This story was posted under another name, but I have decided to revamp it and try again. Any advise would be helpful.  
  
Prolog  
  
It was Midwinter's eve on Boromir's 8th year. The year that his family ended. He stood in a neat and clean room. Beside him was his father, the Steward of Gondor. In his father's arms was his younger brother Faramir. Faramir was only three years old and tears freely fell from his large blue eyes. On the bed lay a woman, pale and cold with death. She had been washed and dressed in pale blue. Her long blond hair was combed and make up covered the greyness of her skin. Stones rested over her green eyes to keep them closed.  
  
It was strange what Boromir would remember of that day. He remembered the blue hue of her nails and he remembered that when he had kissed her goodbye that he could see stitching holding her shriveled lips closed. This corpse was not is mother. His mother had been full of love and life. This creature was hollow and dead. He wanted to run from it. He wanted to scream at it to give his mother back, but no sound could make it past the lump in his throat.  
  
A week ago, all he could think about were the presents he would get for Midwinter's and whether his father would let him stay up late the night before. Now he could think of nothing but this hideous wreck in front of him. This was not was should have been happening. They should have been sitting in front of the fire listening to her stories while he cuddled against one side of her and Faramir against the other. Maybe their father would join them if he had the time. They would stay up late and when they did go to their room for bed Faramir would crawl into Boromir's bed and they would talk about what they wanted for Midwinter's day presents.  
  
It would be a good night. Faramir would not have nightmares, their father would have a good night sleep so he would not be tired and cross the next morning, and their mother would take them into the snow to play. That was what should have happened. Instead, Boromir looked up at his father. Faramir was sobbing in the Steward's arms. His chubby arms wrapped around his father's neck.  
  
"Daddy, why won't she wake up? Why?" Faramir wailed. He was too young to understand death.  
  
"Because she is dead, my son. She is gone from us." Denethor tried to soothe his youngest son. Seeing his little boy's pain was almost harder to bear than his own grief.  
  
"Can't you make her not dead, daddy?" Faramir sniffled. It seemed reasonable to his three year old mind.  
  
"No." The Steward felt tears prickle in his own eyes. If only he could change things. He had known his wife was ill. He had called every healer from here to the Golden wood, but none could help her. She had the wasting disease. The healers said it was in her womb. By the end she was in so much pain she could not move. That was when he had come to her. She had begged him to end it. And being a good husband he had done this one favour for her. She had suffered so much because of him but this thing he could do for her.  
  
He had given her a lethal does of painkillers. He sat with her and held her as she slipped into a deep sleep and then into death. He felt her last breath leave her body. But before she had succumbed she had spoken to him. She had begged him to burn her and take her ashes to the sea. He had agreed. She had begged him to raise her sons well. He had agreed. He loved his sons. Her last words had been love for their youngest not for him. As the years went by that would eat at him like the cancer that took her.  
  
He had kept her condition from their sons. He had not wanted them to worry. But he knew Boromir at least had noticed. His eldest had noticed that she moved less, that she slept more, and that she had less energy. He hated the fact that Boromir had though that his wife had been with child. That was how she had acted when she was pregnant with Faramir. He sighed.  
  
His worst regret was that he had not let her return to Dol Amroth to die. She had wanted to see the seashore again. She had wanted to return to her childhood home to say goodbye to the world. But he selfishly would not let her. He could not be spared from the city and he did not want her to leave his side. He wished he had let her go, if only to ease her passing. Forcing her to stay in the city only seemed to quicken it.  
  
"But why? You can do anything, daddy." Faramir began to sob again. His simple, childish statement cut Denethor to the bone. This was something that a father's love could not heal. This was something he could not kiss or hug away. He grew angry with his son for expecting him to be able to stop death.  
  
He thrust the child away from him and into his other son's arms. "Take him Boromir. Take him out of my sight." He had spoken coldly. He didn't want his children to see his tears. They would honor their mother and remember her with love and laughter, not with tears and sorrow.  
  
Boromir had taken his brother to their room. Faramir still cried but he was helpless to stop him. All he could do was hold his little brother while he cried. He himself was too shocked to cry. The reality of the whole situation hadn't sunk in yet. It was like some horrid nightmare that would end when his mother came and woke him for breakfast.  
  
"Father is angry with me. Is he going to die and leave us now too?" Faramir questioned through his tears.  
  
"No, he won't" Boromir said fiercely. "He won't leave us."  
  
"But he is angry with me. He hates me." Faramir wailed again.  
  
"No he doesn't, little brother, he loves you." And through the years he would repeat that statement many times to his little brother has Farmir cried in his arms. But that was the first time. The first time that Boromir dreaded the coming of Midwinter's because of his mother's death. However, it was far from the last time he would dread the holiday. 


	2. Not everyone loves Midwinter's

Disclaimers and notes are on prolog  
  
Chapter one:  
  
The Fellowship trudged into the cave, sopping wet and freezing cold. Legolas, the elf, quickly went back into the forest to try and find dead wood to burn for a fire, even as Aragorn the Ranger began to backtrack in hopes of cleaning away their tracks. Boromir though it was useless. They were moving as slow as new borne babes and had left tracks even maid could follow. However, still every day before they camped Aragorn would attempt this impossible feat. Boromir didn't know whether he should commend the other human's optimism or shake him for his stupidity. Instead, he settled for helping Sam remove the packs from Bill the pony.  
  
The cave would be warm and comfortable for the night, even if the men and elf wouldn't be able to stand to their full heights in it. They shouldn't have let the dwarf pick it out. But, at least it was out of the rain. At the same time that he brooded over that thought, he stood to his full height, painfully thumping his head against the bumpy overhang above him. He hissed out a stream of curses in Haradish. Faramir may have been the master at elvish poetry, but Boromir having been a soldier for over 25 years was a master at profanity. All four of the hobbits looked up at him and Gandalf blushed. He would have apologized, but Pippin interrupted him.  
  
"Gee, Boromir, you need to learn to be more careful. If you get hit too hard on the top of the head too often, you could end up knocking yourself down to the size of hobbit." Pippin smiled up at him. Boromir just glowered at the short annoying creature. "Could you imagine, Merry, a hobbit in service of Gondor?" All four hobbits dissolved into laughter and Boromir bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snapping.  
  
"I believe that would be a sad day for Gondor and an end to the house of the Stewards." Boromir coolly derided at the same time he handed two wet shivering hobbits his warm and dry fur lined cloak. He then headed to the front of the cave to help Legolas bring in the firewood.  
  
Gandalf watched the Steward's son interact with the hobbits with no little amusement. He had known every member of the Fellowship since they were babes in arms, but of them all he knew Boromir the least. In retrospect that had been a mistake. If anything happened to Aragorn, Boromir would rule the most powerful nation of men on Middle Earth. And he was the only other person with a hope of united the humans under a single banner. The Steward's other son, Faramir, had been a great companion of Gandalf for many years, but Denathor had always done his best to keep his eldest away from the wizard. However, Gandalf still knew much and had learned much more in the last few months.  
  
For example, Boromir was a natural caretaker as evidenced by his behavior towards Merry and Pippin. The great sword of Gondor would deride the hobbits even as he dogged their steps to make sure nothing happened to them. This had unnerved the hobbits and they had come to him to discuss it. Gandalf ignored them, realizing that Boromir needed someone to take care of because he stopped him form worrying about his beloved homeland.  
  
"Gandalf," it was Pippin, "doesn't he ever laugh, or lighten up, or smile?"  
  
"Aye, he must be the most miserably grim person in all of Middle Earth. He makes Gimli look friendly." Now it was Merry's turn.  
  
Gandalf smiled into his beard as he spoke. "Frodo, Sam, have you anything else to add."  
  
Frodo answered first. "I know that Lord Elrond wanted him along with us and I would not doubt his wisdom, but he does seem like he would rather not be here and that he hates us." Frodo's large blue eyes looked towards the ground at the idea of someone actually hating him.  
  
"I shan't say anything bad about Mr. Boromir, sir. He is right kind. He does a hundred little kind things for Bill and the rest of us that the other big folks forget. Maybe he just isn't very friendly." Good old Sam, he could not say something bad about a potential friend.  
  
But Sam was right, Gandalf mused. Boromir did take special care of all of the hobbits, not just Frodo. Aragorn watched Frodo like a hawk. He would have cut the raindrops from the sky to prevent the ring bearer from getting cold if he could, but Boromir looked after the other three. But it made sense. Aragorn was used to watching out for a few people at a time and having seasoned warriors to help him. Boromir on the other had been the leader of one of the largest armies in Middle Earth and he alone knew how to deal with green recruits. He had a good sense on when to let them learn themselves and when to help them out. It was a useful skill in dealing with the hobbits.  
  
"Perhaps you shouldn't judge him too harshly, young hobbits but get to know him instead. Life in Gondor is very different than that in the Shire." With that Gandalf went to the front of the cave to meet Aragorn as he approached.  
  
"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Pippin questioned.  
  
"I'm not sure, Pip, but who cares. Look what Strider brought." All four hobbits turned around and saw that the Ranger had returned bearing a small wild boar. Tonight they would have fresh meat.  
  
Pippin found it very fitting that they would have fresh meat since it was Midwinter's eve. The rest of the party had wanted to stay in Rivendell until after Midwinter, especially Aragorn, who had wanted the extra time with Arwen, but Boromir had insisted they leave as soon as possible. Pippin decided that on top of being unfriendly he was also impatient. However, he couldn't quit thinking about what Gandalf had said. So he vowed that over good food he would try to get to know the huge man.  
  
He looked around for Boromir, but he was nowhere in sight. Pippin couldn't understand how he would want to leave the cave. It smelled so wonderful with the scent of cooking pork. It reminded him of home. But since Boromir wasn't around he snuggled closer to Merry under the man's cloak and dozed until he returned.  
  
Boromir was outside of the cave and upwind slightly. He was listening to Gandalf and Aragorn argue again about their direction and the potential for evil attacks. It irritated him beyond measure that the two didn't think that he was worthy of being included in their talks. It wasn't like he was some green soldier on his first campaign.  
  
He was brought back from his musings by the sound of raised voices speaking in elvish and then Gandalf returned to the cave. Apparently their talk was over. The future king stood fuming for sometime but did not come towards Boromir. That was fine with him. He wasn't really in the mood for conversation anyway. He wanted to keep moving. Everyday they dawdled and kept up this crawling pace, was another day that Gondor had to stand against evil. It was another day that his rivers ran red with his people's blood and it was another day that his beloved brother could have his life taken by battle.  
  
He shook his head trying to shake out the maudlin thoughts. Faramir was a good and strong soldier, he had seen to that himself. But even the best soldiers could fall. He wished he could quit thinking about these things, they were depressing him, but he couldn't. Day and night he obsessed about it. That his people, his lands, and his brother's lives depended on halflings who had no concept of war or shadow. The idea chaffed him, like wearing too tight clothes. He wanted to leave. He wanted to take the ring and a horse and speed it down to be destroyed but he knew he couldn't do that. The others would kill him before he made it ten feet. Plus he had given his oath to protect Frodo, which left him where? It left him only two weeks outside of Rivendell on a trip that would take months at this rate. He wanted to scream in frustration as he thought of it.  
  
But he didn't scream. Instead he watched Aragorn meet the elf as he returned from some foray or other into the woods. Boromir hadn't even known Legolas was near, but Aragorn's head snapped up a few seconds before the elf appeared. It was spooky. The two spoke quickly in Elvish. Legolas seemed to always speak to the would be king in his native tongue. Boromir guessed it was some type of security thing because Legolas's Westron was flawless. He wasn't sure though which one was being given comfort by the language though. Part way through the conversation Aragorn bowed his head and gestured towards Boromir. It wasn't a beckoning gesture, but rather one indicating that he was being spoken about. Legolas then placed a gentle hand on the Ranger's shoulder and returned to the cave to dry off.  
  
Boromir tried not to look askance at the gesture, but it did seem to him that the two touched each other an alarming amount. More than once he had woken up to one of them braiding the other's hair or simply sitting very close to each other. Had they been brothers he would not have given a second thought to it, but they weren't. He didn't know what to make of it. It was plain as day the Aragorn loved Arwen, but he seemed to also love Legolas. Boromir felt a smile tug at his lips at the idea of how his own people would receive a king who bent that way. But before he could indulge himself in one of his favoured fantasies that involved the people of Gondor stoning the would be king, Aragorn began to speak to him.  
  
"It seems we will be spending Midwinter's day in this cave. The bridge to the south is underwater from the rain. Hopefully by the day after tomorrow it will be passable." Aragorn said by way of explanation.  
  
"That is not acceptable. Isn't there another bridge further down that can be used? We cannot delay for that long." Boromir felt anxious and unhappy at the idea of being trapped here for another day. And if he let himself admit it, he felt that way also because of the mention of Midwinter's holiday. He HATED Midwinter.  
  
"Yes, there is, but he terrain between here and there is too rough for the hobbits to travel. We must cross at this bridge so we must wait until it is open again. Besides it will be good for the hobbits to rest for a day and celebrate." He turned and entered the cave leaving Boromir alone in the pouring sleet wanting to strangle someone over the new turn of events.  
  
Boromir stayed outside as long as he could. He didn't feel like company and he didn't feel like being around company that was celebrating his most hated of all holidays. But he could already hear the cheer of the others as they began to serve up the wild boar that had been cooking for hours. Boromir forced the scowl on his face to lessen into not a scowl and took the seat closest to the door. The stench of the pork was enough to nearly make him run from the cave and wretch. He hated that smell, that horrible sweet smell of cooking flesh. He didn't mind the taste, just as long as he didn't have to be near it while it was cooking. Mix with that the stink of pipeweed that clung to everything around them and he wished he could slice his nose off.  
  
He was handed a plate full of pork and potatoes that Legolas had found so he was forced to stay in the vile smelling cave. As they ate, the Hobbits talked and laughed and so did the Dwarf and Gandalf. Aragorn even shared their mirth now and again and he was sure he had seen the elf crack a smile. But he could not. The feast tasted like ash in his mouth and the laughter sounded like death screeches to him. He would have gotten up to leave, but Pippin sat down next to him and stared up at him.  
  
"I think, since we are going to be sharing Midwinter together, that we should talk about how we want to celebrate it." Pippin began. Frodo went to silence him, but Gandalf stopped him. "In the Shire, we spend the night before feasting and exchanging stories about past Midwinters. Then in the morning we awake and open our presents. The day after Midwinter the lords must act as servants and the servants must act as lords. It is great fun." All of the higher born hobbits laughed at the memory while Sam, the only servant of the bunch, looked uncomfortable.  
  
"We dwarves drink on the eve and then pray on Midwinters. We open our presents at midnight."  
  
"Amongst the Dunedain we do not really celebrate. We are rarely together on such holidays. But in Rivendell, Lord Elrond has a grand tree that we decorated with strings of popcorn and berries and colourful paper folded into the shape of birds and stars. Then we would all bundle up and sit by the fire drinking hot coco while he told us tales. We would usually all fall asleep there and he would make sure each of us was warm and comfortable. Then on Midwinter's day there would be presents exchanged in the morning and feasts and songs all day long. But most importantly, Ad, I mean Lord Elrond, would promise not to touch pen or parchment for the entire day." Aragorn smiled at the memory of warm and safe holidays spent with those he loved. Those who knew Lord Elrond well, laughed at the idea.  
  
"I don't understand. He promises not to read or write for the whole day?" Pippin questioned, wondering how they would work that into their celebration.  
  
Aragorn shrugged his shoulders. "For him that is a big deal. Lord Elrond's greatest love in his long life are his books and his lore."  
  
"Nay, his greatest love are his children." Gandalf corrected. He knew there had been an argument between father and son before Aragorn had left and he didn't want the future king distracted by it. As he spoke Aragorn's looked down. "All his children, Estel." He said in Elvish.  
  
"In Mirkwood we have tournaments to see who is the best archer or the best swordsman on Midwinter's eve. The women decorate trees with ribbons and stars as well. Then on Midwinter's day we have feasts and the winners are allowed to dine at the table of the king. At the end of the feast, presents are exchanged and the winners are gifted with gold rings to wear for the year." Legolas piped in trying to distract Aragorn. He alone knew what had transpired between Elrond, Aragorn, and Arwen.  
  
"Well, I guess we can't really have a tournament here, even if he have a king to eat with and a gold ring to give out." Pippin joked. There was a stunned silence before everyone but Boromir erupted in laughter. He found nothing funny about any of this. "What about Gondor? What do you do there?"  
  
"We feast and exchange gifts. Excuse me." Boromir rose and walked outside of the cave. It was the third time he had done so during their talk. He doubted they would want to reenact any of his traditions. When he was young it involved standing in the tomb for hours paying homage to his dead mother. Then he would have to sneak down during the night to change the names on some of presents so that Faramir would get gifts from the Steward. Then there would be the tense breakfast and opening gifts. Boromir would pray he had chosen well. His father was always angry with him for changing the names, but he would always do it. He couldn't stand to see his little brother upset.  
  
After he and Faramir had grown up, Midwinter's was usually heralded in by the two of them getting blind stinking drunk. He would usually fall asleep on Faramir's couch after pouring his little brother into bed. Then they would wake up too hung over to go to breakfast, but Denethor would make them go anyway. Presents would be opened. Boromir would be praised and Faramir ridiculed. Faramir would get sad, and Boromir would get angry. Their father would stare at them with cold eyes and then they would leave. Usually back to bed to rest up for the long boring hours they would have to spend in uncomfortable formal wear during the grand Midwinter's dinner and reception. He hated it with a passion.  
  
"Well that wasn't helpful." Pippin said.  
  
"So, we have exchanging stories, decorating trees, tournaments, feasting, no reading or writing, opening gifts, and praying. Now we just have to find a way to do all of those on short notice before tomorrow." Frodo distracted Pippin by saying.  
  
"We obviously can't do the tournament, as Pippin mentioned. But we could get a small tree and tell stories while we decorate it. Then tomorrow we can exchange gifts and feast. How does that sound?" Aragorn said, happy to see that the Ringbearer looked like he was enjoying himself.  
  
"That sounds wonderful, but we still don't have any traditions from Gondor." Pippin said.  
  
"Don't worry we'll find one out later." Gandalf smiled at the youngest hobbit who was already plotting how best to make everyone enjoy the day.  
  
Aragorn and Legolas slipped out to find a tree and some hasty decorations and they passed Boromir as he sat cross-legged staring out into space. "We are to fetch a tree, would you care to join us?" Aragorn called. Sense a great melancholy from the warrior.  
  
"No thank you. I have no desire to encourage the halflings to linger here any longer than we must." Boromir realized how cold he sounded, but he didn't care.  
  
"We are only trying to keep their spirits up so they don't despair. It is not good for them to dwell on what must come." Aragorn said softly.  
  
"Perhaps you should let them despair, then they will know how the people of the South feel every day that we delay." Boromir rose and stormed off into the cave because he didn't have anywhere else to go.  
  
Luckily everyone was quieting down for sleep and only Gandalf was still awake.  
  
"Come and sit by the fire, you must be chilled from spending so much time in the freezing rain." Gandalf called to him as he began to smoke his pipe. Boromir joined him but stayed near the mouth of the cave. He detested the smell of those pipes. "You musn't be so hard on them, lad. Doing things like this reminds them of what they are fighting for."  
  
"They aren't fighting. They are living happily and quietly while my people fight and die to protect the peace of elves, hobbits and dwarves." Boromir sulked.  
  
"I know that is what it seems like to you, but they will need to fight. They will need to learn to depend on themselves and each other if this quest is to succeed. And you must learn to depend on them."  
  
"Depend on them for what?" The thought seemed ludicrous to him.  
  
"Perhaps, to remind the mighty Sword of Gondor what it is that he is trying so hard to protect." Gandalf then stood and walked out of the cave leaving Boromir alone with four sleeping hobbits and a sleeping dwarf. Not having anything better to do, Boromir laid down to sleep. He quickly fell into sleep with the practiced ease of a seasoned campaigner. But his sleep was not peaceful. In his dreams he saw ruin and death. He saw the walls of his precious city breached and his men falling. He saw the streets running red and black with the blood of men and orcs. He saw women and children being forced to take up arms to protect themselves from the rampage. But worst, he saw his brother. Faramir lay upon a pyre burning and his eyes pleaded with Boromir to save him even as their father lit the wood. As the flames engulfed his beloved brother, he reached a hand out and begged for Boromir to help him. But it was too late, Boromir could already smell the stench of burning flesh.  
  
The warrior woke with a start and almost choked on the smell from his dream. He immediately stood and charged out into the rain for fresh air. Taking several deep breaths he did not notice that Gandalf stood against the mouth of the cave.  
  
"What did you see, son of Gondor? Gandalf questioned. He knew that Boromir rarely dreamed true unlike his brother, but he was still curious. He had a sneaking suspicion that the elder son saw more than he let on,  
  
"I saw nothing, merely a dream." Boromir answered coolly.  
  
"What did you dream of?"  
  
"The same thing I dream of every night, wizard. The destruction of Gondor. The fall of my city and the death of my people." Boromir finally snapped. He never could see much use in talking about such things.  
  
"If you see it every night, then why did it bother you so this night?" Gandalf questioned because Boromir looked very off balance. He seemed shaken to the core and it was unlike what he knew of the stalwart soldier.  
  
Boromir did not answer for a moment, but instead looked towards the east and sent a silent prayer that his family was still well. He hadn't intended to say anything, but Gandalf's hand on his shoulder was so comforting he felt like he couldn't stop himself from answering. "I saw my brother burning. He was being burned alive and he called to me for help." Boromir looked down.  
  
"Indeed." Gandalf felt slightly unnerved for some reason. But he would not let Boromir dwell on his dream. "But as you said, it was just a dream."  
  
"Yes, a dream." Boromir seemed to straighten up and regain his composure. "No doubt brought on by the smell of the pig in there." And it was true. The smell of the pork still cooking smelled just like burning human bodies. The stink reminded him of defeat. At Osgiliath after the bridge had been lost they had gone back and dredged the river for bodies. Not having time to burry them all, he had ordered that they be burned. He had thrown the torch down himself. He would not make anyone else do that grim job. He had stood there and watched his men burn. Saw the flesh cook and slide away from faces he had known. From men he had drunk ale with, men who had trusted him to keep them safe. The stench had turned his stomach then even as it did now.  
  
Gandalf nodded, seeming to understand what Boromir was feeling, and went back inside. Boromir stayed outside for a moment longer when he felt a soft tug on his sleeve. He looked down into the wide blue eyes of Pippin.  
  
"You have a brother?" It was the most personal thing he had heard the big man say since they had met.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What is his name?"  
  
"Faramir."  
  
"Is he like you?"  
  
Boromir thought on that question. His brother was much like him in appearance, if shorter and slighter of build. Faramir's hair tended more towards brown and his eyes more blue while Boromir's hair was blond and his eyes sea green. But there was no mistaking them as anything but brothers. However, in temperament they could not have been more different. Faramir was quiet, gentle, and a great lover of art and music. Boromir was not. Boromir knew one thing only, battle.  
  
"We are much alike in looks, but not in personality." He finally answered, hoping the hobbit would go away.  
  
"I don't have any brothers, just sisters. But I have Merry and Frodo. They are like brothers. Do you have sisters?"  
  
"No."  
  
"What about parents? You must have them." Pippin was becoming exasperated with the Gondorian. Even Strider had been more talkative when they had first met and he didn't think he had ever met anyone that quiet and surly before. Since then he had learned that Aragorn was not mean and he didn't hate the hobbits. He was just somewhat shy and reclusive by nature and it took him awhile to warm up to people. But Boromir didn't seem shy he just seemed plain mean.  
  
"Yes I have parents, master hobbit."  
  
"Are they back in Gondor?" This was like pulling teeth.  
  
"My father is the Steward of Gondor, of course he there. My mother died when I was small enough to have to look up to you."  
  
"How terrible for you. Frodo lost his parents when he was young too. I can't imagine what that must be like."  
  
"Then don't try." Boromir groused and adjusted his stance to block the wind from hitting the smallest member of the Fellowship.  
  
"Can I ask one more thing?"  
  
"Can I stop you?" Boromir missed his troops that knew him well. They knew when to leave him to brood; they shrank from his glares and never intruded on his privacy like these annoying little people did. He had fought with men for 20 years that had never asked him this many personal questions.  
  
"Yes. You could tell me to go away." Pippin answered, choking back tears. He didn't understand why this man hated them so much. He turned and ran back into the cave to stay with Merry. Didn't Boromir think that the hobbits missed their homes and their families too? He wasn't the only one who wanted this to be over. If the big people didn't care about them then he wouldn't care about them.  
  
Boromir looked down and saw tears fill Pippin's big blue eyes. Great, now he felt guilty. No. He was not going to let that stupid hobbit make him feel bad for wanting some privacy. He hadn't done anything wrong. If Pippin hadn't been so nosey he would not have had to say that to him. Boromir hung is head in defeat. He had been raised for nearly forty years to feel guilty about everything. Any little failing whether it be fate for falter was his fault for not foreseeing it. He cursed quietly to himself and then trudged back in to apologize to Pippin. But Merry wouldn't let him anywhere near the younger hobbit so he contented himself with polishing is sword and shield. He hid his amusement to notice that Merry seemed to become less brave the longer he looked at Boromir's sword. 


End file.
